Out of Time
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke is presented with a mystery that affects more lives than it seems on the surface. Follows 'Tattoo's Kids'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This was a tricky story to write, and battling a cold throughout the process didn't make it any easier! But it's finally ready, and I hope you'll enjoy it. This one's for Raggedygal… :) And thanks, of course, to jtbwriter, PDXWiz, Harry2 and Bishop T. (Overdue reiteration of disclaimer: _Fantasy Island,_ Mr. Roarke and Tattoo were created by Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg and Gene Levitt; I've simply been borrowing their creations as the basis for my tales. Also, thanks to TV writer Ruel Fischmann for creating a particularly memorable character who makes another appearance in this story.)_

* * *

§ § § -- January 9, 2005

They stood quietly together at the plane dock, watching vacationers boarding; there were enough of them that both Christian and Leslie felt a little self-conscious trying to say a proper goodbye here in public. Too many people recognized them as being part of the royal family of Lilla Jordsö, and there were greetings and smiles.

Finally Christian shook his head and pulled his wife aside, behind an enormous jacaranda that was in full spectacular bloom. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. "I should have booked a later flight. Errico's jet could have waited another couple of hours."

Leslie smiled a little and shrugged. "I wish you had," she admitted. "Can't you change it now? Or did you already lock in your flight schedule?"

"I did," he grumbled, tossing a disgusted glance skyward. "This whole thing is simply insane." He focused on her and studied her for a long moment, as if trying to memorize her face. "Promise me that the next time someone begs me to open a new branch, you'll talk me out of agreeing. I don't like having to deal with the tax laws of foreign countries, I think the whole idea of becoming an international tycoon is not only absurd but a certain ticket to an ulcer…and more than anything else, I hate the traveling and being away from you."

"Solemn vow," Leslie said, sliding her arms around him and holding on tight. "I still don't know why it's impossible to turn this king down. You're not one of his subjects, Christian, and he can't imprison you or penalize you for not giving in to his demands. Does he know he's separating us for our wedding anniversary next Sunday?"

"Not even that swayed him," Christian said in frustration. "I honestly wish I could explain it to you and get you to understand. Maybe you have to be born royal, or at least European, to get the idea. Better still, try reading up on Henry VIII and James I of England. They both honestly and truly believed in the divine right of kings, and let absolutely nothing get in the way of that so-called right. Errico is the same way. He's damned generous, and if he considers you a friend, he'll go light-years out of his way to give you anything your heart might desire. But refuse him when he has his heart set on something, and his wrath is a spectacle to behold." He paused, saw Leslie's annoyed frown, and gave her the raised eyebrow she'd come to know all too well. "I seem to recall, when you and I were first getting to know each other, that you and Mr. Roarke both mentioned Errico's pursuit of you all those years ago. I know Errico well enough to know how singleminded he would have been—and how very angry I'm sure he got when you turned him down."

Leslie's mind spun back more than thirteen years to the summer she was twenty-six and the way Errico had courted her despite her vociferous insistence that she wasn't yet ready for a new romance. It had infuriated her, how certain of himself Errico had been and how he'd simply assumed he could carry her off with him no matter how much she objected to the idea. Not only that, but she suddenly also recalled Roarke's mention of the divine right of kings in reference to Errico, and her indignation began to fade. "Damn," she said on a resigned sigh. "You had to go and remind me. I don't think I've ever seen such cold rage and contempt in anyone's eyes as when I rejected him. And he himself mentioned that stupid 'divine-right' idea, now that I recall it."

"Well, there you are," Christian said. "He considers me a friend, and in all honesty I'd far rather be on his good side. Before you accuse me of meekly knuckling under to his every whim, try to remember how strongly he believes in that right, no matter how absurd and outdated it may be." He kissed her gently. "But I'm not without a little bargaining power of my own. I'll see to it that we're compensated in some way, however inadequate, for missing our anniversary. Errico's agreed to every demand I've made, and that must mean he wants something else. He'll have to stay on my good side too."

"Hmm," Leslie said, peering at him. "If he's that willing to make concessions, tell him you're staying till after our anniversary, and _then_ you'll go."

Christian sighed, grinned sheepishly and ducked his head. "I'm afraid that's largely my own fault. I promised the family I would be there on a certain date."

"They'll understand if you change it," Leslie persisted.

"Leslie, don't you see? I _forgot,"_ Christian finally said, his tone filled with self-disgust. "I never thought I'd be one of those utter idiots who can't remember such an important date, but damned if I didn't actually forget. I booked all the flights and made all the arrangements, and it isn't possible for me to back out now. Perhaps being around those stupid amakarna pills that Tattoo's widow was being plied with affected my brain somehow."

He was so clearly ready to undergo self-flagellation for his lapse in memory that Leslie had to laugh in spite of everything. "Well, it's not as if it's a milestone or anything," she said through a sigh. "It's just our fourth anniversary."

Christian groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "It's not 'just' anything!" he protested, shaking his head vigorously. "It was a stupid error on my part! Leslie, don't you realize I'd give anything to go back in time and change my actions?"

"Want to talk to Father?" Leslie teased impishly, and he groaned again. She giggled and hugged him. "Yes, okay, it's all your fault, you screwed up big-time, and you really owe me one. Several, actually. I expect to see a gigantic bouquet of roses next Sunday morning, and I expect you to call me, and e-mail me, and send me a card, and leave me a humongous box of chocolates. Does that make you feel better, now that I've given you hell?"

Christian was staring at her. "You really are no help at all," he complained.

"Don't fret so much over it, my love," she said softly, sobering. "I could tell you were as frustrated with Errico's persistence as I was, and I figure you just had a senior moment or two when you put your plans together. My darling, there are much worse things you could have done than forget our anniversary, so stop beating yourself to death about it. You finally gave in to him just to get him off your back, didn't you? And when you did, you were so annoyed that you forgot to think it through."

"Yes, well, all right…I'll concede to that," he said, blowing out his breath. "I'm still not happy with myself, and you're being far more understanding than I deserve about all this, but you have a way of reading my emotions sometimes that frightens me a little." She giggled and cuddled against him, trying to savor their last moments together, and he squeezed her, then tilted her head back and kissed her deeply. It brought back to her mind their intense lovemaking from the night before, and she lost herself in him to the point that when he broke contact, she wanted nothing more than to take him home and fall into bed with him all over again.

"My Rose," he murmured, sounding as aroused as she felt. "If only we could—"

"Last call for all passengers," they heard one of the attendants shout. Christian and Leslie both stiffened, then groaned and sagged against each other, reality hitting home once more. They were out of time, and they hugged each other hard before coming out from behind the jacaranda and walking reluctantly to the plane dock.

"I love you, Christian," she murmured, pausing with him at the foot of the ramp.

"And I love you, my darling Rose," he said quietly, hugging her one last time before releasing her and turning away. Five steps up the ramp, he stopped short, stood still for a second, and then turned back. "Tell me, Leslie, what in fate's name is a senior moment?"

She burst out laughing. "I'll explain it to you in an e-mail. Go on, my love, you're going to miss the plane." He rolled his eyes, laughed as well, and finally boarded the charter, leaving Leslie chuckling softly to herself.

§ § § -- January 15, 2005

"The man you see before you is Dr. Brennan Reese, from Tucumcari, New Mexico," said Roarke the first Saturday after Christian's departure. "He's quite successful, has a small practice with another doctor, is married and has two children, lives in a pleasant house in the suburbs. But for much of his life something has plagued him, and it all began with a century-and-a-half-old diary."

"Hmm, well, this sounds interesting," Leslie said. "Go on."

"The diary apparently was written by the sister of Dr. Reese's great-great-grandmother," Roarke said, as if in contemplation. "She was a nurse, engaged to be married to a young man who was dying. The young lady was apparently so in love with her fiancé that she simply couldn't bear to lose him, and according to what Dr. Reese tells me was written in the diary, she 'made arrangements' to keep him alive. It was the last entry she ever wrote. What happened to her is a family mystery, and Dr. Reese wants to solve that mystery."

"It seems like something that could have been researched over the internet," Leslie mused. "We have hardly any nineteenth-century fantasies anymore because of that; so many people are getting their questions answered that way."

"That's very true," Roarke agreed, "but even the internet can be of only so much help. It contains merely what information was already available; it doesn't necessarily procure new information. Such is the case with Dr. Reese, and that's why he's here."

It was Leslie's habit to play a little with the triplets before putting them in for their morning naps on Saturdays, just so she could have some contact with them before going about her job. For that reason Roarke usually allowed about two hours before the first of the weekend guests was due at the main house. This weekend the babies were a little restless, as if they knew Christian was gone and missed him. Atop that, Susanna and Karina were both actively teething, and the process was clearly more painful for them than it had been for their brother. Of the two girls it seemed Susanna had the harder time, and she was crying around her teething ring when Brennan Reese walked in, carrying a small leather-bound book. Like most people, he recognized Leslie as a princess, and gave her a quick bow before approaching curiously. "Poor little girl," he said. "Teething, huh?"

"And how," Leslie said with a resigned smile and sigh. "I guess we're in for a few months of siege." Dr. Reese laughed, and she arose with Susanna in her arms. "I'll be right back, let me just put her down for her nap."

When she returned, Roarke and Dr. Reese were talking a little, though the doctor seemed slightly nervous, drumming his fingers on the cover of the book. "Ah, good," Roarke said when Leslie stepped off the last stair tread. "Why don't you begin now, Dr. Reese, and tell us what you know."

Dr. Reese lifted the leather-bound book and placed it on the desk in front of Roarke. "That's my great-great-great-aunt's diary," he explained. "Her name was Amarette Blaine. It dates from 1853 and 1854 but covers only about ten months. It was the last in a series she kept from her teens on, and it gives a really detailed portrait of a nineteenth-century life. She lived in Pittsburgh and was going to marry there, except that her fiancé, Gareth Moran, had a disease that at the time couldn't be cured. She refers to it as 'consumption', whereas we know it as tuberculosis."

Roarke nodded. "I understand," he said. "May I look at the diary?"

"Of course," Dr. Reese said. "In fact, I'd specifically like you to look at the last two entries. They're the whole reason for this mystery." Roarke opened the book and glanced up at Leslie; together they silently read the final two entries of the diary.

_June 5, 1854. Gareth's consumption has laid him so low that he is now confined to his bed. Lately he has begun to cough up blood. I am deeply frightened for him…or, that is, I was. He shall be saved: I have made arrangements so that it will be done._

_June 6, 1854. The time has come. I have not dared tell Gareth what I am giving up for him. One day I hope he will forgive me. I must leave now. Farewell, dear diary._

"Cryptic," Leslie remarked.

Dr. Reese nodded. "No question about that. That's what I'm doing here, you see. My great-great-great-aunt disappeared after that, and no one knows where to. No trace of her was ever found. I want to go back and find out what really happened to Amarette Blaine."

Roarke looked up, though both Dr. Reese and Leslie had the sense that part of his attention was elsewhere. "I have arranged for you to return to the Pittsburgh of early June, 1854, so that you may meet Miss Blaine. As in the present day, you will be a doctor, and I will see to it that you have the proper medication to take with you so that Gareth Moran can be cured." Dr. Reese's face lit up; Leslie, on the other hand, stared at her father, astounded. "I have a few final arrangements to make, so if you will, please return here in one hour."

"That I will," Dr. Reese said enthusiastically, standing up and shaking hands. "Thank you so much, Mr. Roarke."

"Do you mind if I retain this until you come back?" Roarke asked, lifting the diary.

"Not a bit," Dr. Reese replied cheerfully. "Not a bit, Mr. Roarke. See you in an hour." He trotted out of the house whistling.

Leslie leaned against the desk and folded her arms over her chest. "You know, in all the years I've watched you grant fantasies, I don't think I've ever seen you do that," she said, shaking her head. "It took you all of sixty seconds to tell that man you'll send him back."

Roarke nodded, watching her quizzically. "Yes?"

"But that isn't all," she said. "It's not even the biggest thing. You're actually going to send him back with the medicine to cure his great-aunt's fiancé? Are you sure you haven't finally lost your sanity?"

Roarke smiled slightly. "I'm quite sure, my dear Leslie."

She gaped at him. "But you're always telling people that it's not possible to change history! What makes this fantasy so different from all the other ones?"

"This diary," he said, displaying it at her. "There is something in here that tells me that these events, according to the entries herein, should never have happened."

Leslie studied him for a long moment. "Okay…what is it?"

He smiled at that and said, "Good, you're learning." When she rolled her eyes, he let out a soft chuckle. "Bring that chair over here, and I'll show you. You may not be able to see it, but I'll explain anyhow." He showed her the diary and instructed, "Look very carefully at these two pages, and tell me what you see here."

She did so, squinting hard, then looked up. "It's like something was erased, but not."

"Precisely," Roarke said and proceeded to explain further. "Dr. Reese will save Mr. Moran's life, but I myself will have to save Amarette Blaine." He scowled, his dark eyes faraway; then he came back to the moment and focused on his daughter. "I will need you to do a few things for me, Leslie, if you would. After that, whatever happens, you are to remain here whenever I am not in the office. You'll be checking on our other guests and making the usual rounds, as well as gathering the material I need; I must make a series of trips back in time. What with Christian away and the danger involved in this fantasy, I don't want you caught up in it. Do you understand?"

Leslie nodded. "I'll do whatever you need me to, Father."

He smiled and rested his hand on her shoulder. "Good, thank you, my child. Before we do anything more, let's make the time-travel room ready."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- January 15, 2005

Brennan Reese had agreed to leave his ancestress' diary with Roarke after the latter had explained that it could bring on tough questions at the very least. Without telling the doctor why he had agreed to grant his fantasy with so little explanation, Roarke brought him into the time-travel room, gestured at a box filled with clothing sitting on a chair, and handed him a black leather bag. "Those are the clothes you will need to fit into nineteenth-century Pittsburgh, and this bag contains the medication that will cure Mr. Moran. You should be able to use your own name. As soon as you can, get access to Mr. Moran and begin administering the medicine."

"Right, Mr. Roarke." Brennan placed the bag on the floor beside the chair and began to lift garments out of the box. "And that's all there is to it?"

Roarke smiled, just slightly. "Ask whatever questions of your ancestress you feel are necessary," he said.

Brennan peered at him, finally seeming to sense something odd about Roarke's demeanor. "This is too easy," he said slowly. "Is there something else I should know?"

"I must do more research before I can answer that question, Dr. Reese," Roarke said calmly. "For now, it's imperative that you restore Mr. Moran's health. As soon as I leave, change your clothing, then wait." He turned to leave the room.

"Mr. Roarke, come on…seriously?" Brennan persisted.

Roarke glanced back. "Yes, seriously," he said with a trace of whimsy in his voice. He smiled, this time with reassurance, and gestured again at the box of clothes. "I will return to check in with you later on. I wish you luck, Dr. Reese." Once more he turned away, and this time Brennan let him go, wondering what Roarke was hiding. Finally he shrugged and set about changing his clothing.

He folded his own clothes and laid them neatly inside the box, then picked up the black bag and waited, as Roarke had instructed. In a few seconds the room filled with a soft gray mist, foglike in texture and carrying the strange musty scent that he used to associate with his grandmother's attic. He couldn't see anything around him, not even his own feet when he looked down. But when he lifted his head again, he realized he could hear voices at some distance, rapidly growing louder as he stood there. Then the mist cleared, and he was standing on a sunny sidewalk in a city, watching horses pulling carriages along the street, people bustling by him, and an American flag on a nearby pole snapping in the breeze. He peered up at the flag and began counting stars, grinning when he saw that there were only thirty-one. _Well,_ _"dis mus' be da place",_ he thought excitedly.

"Forgive me, sir, if I might pry…but you appear to be lost," said a feminine voice from behind him, and he whirled in surprise to find himself staring at an attractive young woman with brown hair carelessly tucked under a bonnet, and an anxious look in her green eyes.

"Uh…I guess you could say that," Brennan said and cleared his throat. "Pardon me, ma'am, but I'm looking for Miss Amarette Blaine."

"You've found her, sir," the young woman said, frowning. "Who might you be?"

"Dr. Brennan Reese," he said.

Instantly she lit. "Oh, thank the good Lord, at last! Dr. Windom said two months ago that he would send for his colleague from Harvard, but I had given up hope." She swallowed thickly, blinked and gave her head a quick shake. "Please, follow me, sir." With that she turned and began to walk briskly away, and Brennan hastened after her.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Brennan blurted, surprised at her speed. On second thought, maybe he shouldn't be; she was obviously desperate. "Ma'am?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder but never slowed down. "Yes?"

"What exactly did Dr. Windom say about me?" he wanted to know.

"He said—" She stopped suddenly and swung into the doorway of a tall, narrow brownstone. "Quickly, please, come in and follow me." Once he was inside she shut the door firmly behind him, and only then did she continue. "He said that there had been ongoing research at Harvard into a cure for consumption, and that you had written to him telling him you thought you had a breakthrough. It simply must work."

"Oh, it will, ma'am," Brennan assured her. "It will."

Amarette Blaine paused, gave him a hard stare, then said, "It had better, after the confidence you're showing in it. Otherwise—" Again she caught herself, then began climbing the staircase in front of her. "This way."

Brennan followed her up the stairs and a few paces along a hallway; she paused in front of a door and eased it open, the anxious look spreading from her eyes to her entire face. "Gareth, my dear, are you awake?"

"Only just, my sweet," came a weak male voice from within. "Come inside."

She slipped in and beckoned at Brennan to follow her. He ventured inside and found himself in a small, stuffy room whose window was shut tight. The air was close and warm, and he winced slightly at the unmistakable odor of illness. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I must ask you to open that window."

"But the city air—" Amarette began.

"Please, do as I ask," Brennan overrode her. "If you have any hope of saving this man, you'll do as I request. First of all, he needs fresh air."

Amarette eyed him suspiciously, and the man in the bed pleaded, "I beg you, my dear, do as he wishes. This room is unbearably stale."

She softened, wrapped one hand over his and murmured, "Anything for you, my love." Without further ado she crossed the room and began to fight to get the window open; in the meantime Brennan approached the bed.

"Are you the doctor who supposedly can help me?" its occupant asked.

"Yes, sir, my name's Brennan Reese," Brennan said. "What I have in here is a guaranteed cure for your affliction."

The man chuckled almost soundlessly. "I am Gareth Moran, sir, and while I admit to a certain skepticism in regard to your 'guaranteed' cure, I must also confess that I'm nearly as desperate as Amarette is. We had such plans, and then for this blasted consumption to cut me down—" He cranked his head aside and began to cough loudly and heavily; Amarette brushed past Brennan, snatched a handkerchief off the little table beside the bed and held it to Moran's mouth. Brennan watched closely, and when Moran finally ceased coughing and Amarette straightened up, he requested to see the cloth.

"He's begun expectorating blood," Amarette said tautly, and Brennan peered at the contents of the handkerchief, smiling a little.

"It's not too bad," he said. "I see no reason this can't be cured. Miss Blaine, do me a favor, please, and see if you can get Mr. Moran some cold water. I realize the weather's warm, but surely you can find a source of cold water."

She stiffened. "I've done everything I can do for him, doctor!"

Moran reached out with one hand. "My dearest Amarette, please, don't waste time arguing. I'm sure the doctor isn't accusing you. Please, I would so appreciate a glass of icy water. And you know I appreciate even more all the care you've taken of me."

Amarette bit her lip, then grabbed the pitcher and hurried out of the room, though not before both Brennan and Moran had caught the sparkle of tears in her eyes. Brennan sighed gently and turned back to Moran. "Don't worry," he said, "this will be relatively painless, I promise." He reached into his bag for the medication Roarke had given him.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie had been at the computer ever since lunch had ended, finding the material Roarke needed online and printing it out whenever she located it. The research had been exhausting; there was surprisingly little available, and she had found only two useful pieces of information in as many hours. Allowing herself a short break, she checked her e-mail and saw a message from Christian waiting for her. _"Hello, my Rose,"_ he wrote, _"I'm sorry I haven't called lately. Three days after I arrived I received a package containing no fewer than three hundred sixteen applications for the positions in the new office, and I've been combing through them at whatever speed I can, in between handing out advice to nieces and nephews and enduring my sister's complaints about how the family doesn't eat all together anymore. I honestly think I should place a DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door, and I've begun to wonder whether coming here really was a better idea than going to Santi Arcuros. Between Rudolf's rocky love life, Margareta's closely guarded little secret, and Gabriella's griping about our unusually recalcitrant parliament, I'm drained. If only they didn't think I was The Man With the Answers! And as if that weren't enough, Errico's wine hasn't shown up here yet. Saints preserve us! At least I'll get a break from Rudolf next week, since he's going to Denmark for a few days. I wish you were here, my Rose, you can always make me feel better. I love you very much. Always, Christian."_

She grinned sympathetically. Christian's first e-mail from Lilla Jordsö the previous Monday had been a long one telling her about a talk he'd had with Rudolf, who was having a hard time trying to understand Louisa Karlsen—the girl he'd met on the island in November—and feeling misunderstood himself, and another that he'd had with Margareta, who had tearfully confessed to Christian that she was lesbian and begged him not to tell anyone other than Leslie. Margareta didn't seem to think the rest of the family would be able to accept her, and Christian had deduced that this was the reason she had been snapping at and criticizing the rest of the family for some time. Leslie brought up a reply and typed: _"Hi, my love! Are the vultures still driving you crazy? By all means, get that DO NOT DISTURB sign…or better yet, tell them your room is off-limits after suppertime and all the way around till breakfast. That ought to get them off your back, at least enough to let you get some sleep. The triplets are doing fine, except that Susanna and Karina are as miserable as ever with their teething, and Tobias has actually chewed a hole right through that teething ring you got him a few months back. Had to get him a new one yesterday. We are dealing with a particularly weird fantasy this weekend. It's a little scary—Father thinks he's going to have to deal with Mephistopheles again. Just when I thought he'd finally given up, after we cheated him and that stupid count out of your soul, and three years later he shows up again—except it looks like it's in the past. Curious yet? I'll tell you more when I can. I love you, my darling, stay well and try to get some rest. All my love, Leslie."_ She sent the message and settled back in the chair, stretching her arms high over her head and yawning. She arched her back inward and considered going to the kitchen for some lemonade; the house was quiet, and the triplets were down for their afternoon nap.

She had just reluctantly settled back to her task when Roarke came back. "How is the research coming, Leslie?" he inquired.

She glanced at him and made a face. "It's like digging for gold in sand. I have exactly two items here, and that's across more than two hours of work."

Roarke smiled. "I didn't expect you to produce very much, as a matter of fact. As history stands just now, there is very little there. Show me what you do have."

"Two newspaper articles," she said and held the printed sheets out to him. He came to her and took them, looking over them for a moment, then nodding once or twice, folding them and slipping them in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

"Good work, Leslie," he said. "I think you'll feel better if you can take a bit of a walk. Why don't you check on the Faraday fantasy, and I'll do a little more work here."

‡ ‡ ‡

Brennan waited till Gareth Moran had fallen asleep, then made his way down the stairs and poked his head in various doorways till he found Amarette. She was in a small, ornately decorated room that faced the street; it, like Moran's, was shut up and stuffy. She sat at a beautiful little rolltop desk writing on something; Brennan suspected it was her diary, and paused to let her complete whatever entry she was making before clearing his throat. "Excuse me, Miss Blaine?"

Amarette's quill dropped from her fingers and she spun in her chair. "Oh…you quite startled me, Dr. Reese."

"My apologies," he said. "Mr. Moran's resting comfortably."

She nodded and arose from her chair, but stood beside it in guarded silence. "You do realize, of course, that until I see some sort of result, I'll have to maintain my skepticism."

He shrugged and peered down at his bag. "You're entitled to your opinion, Miss Blaine, but frankly, I think you'd be wise to wait and see that it does work, before you do anything else." It was the only way he could think of to find out what "arrangements" she had supposedly made to save Moran, in the absence of his cure.

She gave him a wary look. "There are a great many snake-oil salesmen roaming the land, Dr. Reese, and you yourself are untried and rather young. And your radical idea of 'fresh air' in Gareth's room…"

"There are doctors who are prescribing that tuber—that is, consumption patients move out west," he said, dredging whatever scattered history he could from his memory, "to California and other parts of the southwest, and the dry sunny air there does have a way of curing some patients. That's why I suggested opening Mr. Moran's window. It's possible that fresh air could be of some help to him."

Amarette's expression eased slightly. "I've heard of that, yes," she allowed. "But I have a contingency plan, in the event that all else fails."

Brennan eyed her. "Do you have some sort of secret miracle cure, Miss Blaine?"

She flushed and drew herself up straight. "That, sir, is not your concern," she said stiffly. "What matters is that Gareth is cured, and if your treatment fails, this will do it." She brushed past him. "I should be looking for that cold water."

"He's asleep, Miss Blaine," Brennan said, following her.

"No matter." She pushed into a kitchen that looked decidedly primitive by his standards, but which he supposed was reasonably well equipped for the day. "He will want cold water when he awakens. Then come with me, and I'll show you a room where you may sleep while you're with us, treating Gareth."

She duly showed him the room, leaving a pitcher of fresh cold water in Gareth's room, and left him alone after that. The afternoon waned, and Brennan checked twice on Gareth, all the while wondering where Roarke was. He still thought Roarke had given him far too easy a time of it in the course of granting his fantasy; but he had no way of obtaining a full explanation for his host's actions. He began to have a feeling that something sinister underlay all this, that he'd gotten himself into something much deeper and stickier than he'd bargained for. Something had begun to feel just plain _wrong_ about this whole thing, and until Roarke appeared, he knew he wasn't going to get any sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- January 16, 2005

Leslie had been dealing with her cranky daughters all morning, and had only just gotten Karina down to her morning nap alongside Tobias when Roarke appeared in the doorway of her bedroom. She was still rocking Susanna, with little hope of settling her down anytime soon. "Are they giving you difficulties?" he asked.

She shrugged and smiled a little wanly. "It's the teething thing," she said.

Roarke smiled, noting her helpless mien. "Perhaps, just this once, I can help," he said, beckoning to her. "Bring Susanna with you."

"Is something up?" Leslie asked. It was the first time Roarke had offered any kind of remedy for a teething episode, and she could only assume something big had come up.

Her father nodded on his way down the stairs. "You will need to be here and able to handle anything that comes up," he said, "so it's better that the children are safely sleeping in your room. I must check in with Dr. Reese and explain to him that history has been wrongly changed, and give him the evidence I have to show the truth of this."

Leslie stared at him. "You found something?"

"Amarette Blaine's name was familiar to me from the moment I received Dr. Reese's letter," Roarke said, "but it has taken me the entire weekend till this point to discover why." He proceeded to explain what he had learned.

Leslie had nearly forgotten about Susanna's distress in her slack-jawed amazement by the time he finished, and was brought back to the moment only when the baby released a tired cry of pain. Leslie shifted Susanna in her embrace and kissed the top of her daughter's head, smoothing her hair. "So that's what this is all about. Oh, poor baby…I know it hurts, but in just a little bit Grandfather's going to give you something to help, okay, sweetie?" She gently patted Susanna's back, nuzzling the whimpering child's head.

Roarke led them down into the cellar, flicking the light switch near the stairs and gesturing at Leslie to wait beside the steel table in the middle of the room. "This shouldn't take long," he said. "It appears she is having a more difficult time of it than Karina."

Leslie nodded, still rubbing Susanna's back. "Karina's not doing too well either, but it seems to go in cycles with her, so that she can get some sleep and some relief from the pain. Poor Susanna doesn't seem to get even that much, and sometimes even the teething ring doesn't help. It just breaks my heart. And Christian has a way of soothing her that I can't seem to duplicate."

Roarke looked up with amusement and suggested, "Perhaps he simply lets her chew on his finger."

Leslie laughed, rocking the fretting baby. "I don't know what he does. If all she needs is a finger, mine ought to be as good as his, but I've tried that too and it makes no difference. I think I'm going to e-mail him later on and see if he can tell me what his secret is."

"Since he is to be away for some time," Roarke observed, gathering a few bottles from shelves and grouping them on the steel tabletop, "perhaps I'll make enough of this to last for several weeks. Karina may find some solace in it as well, in her more painful moments." He began to mix up some sort of potion in a shallow bowl, while Leslie watched and Susanna alternately cried and whimpered. In a few minutes Roarke poured the resulting mixture into a vial about six inches tall, capped it and handed it to Leslie. "Just place your fingertip over the mouth of the vial," he instructed, "so that a little of it runs onto your finger. Don't do any more than that, you won't need much. Then dab it on her gums where her teeth are erupting. It will soothe the pain long enough to allow her to fall asleep."

"Oh, that's fabulous…thank you, Father," Leslie said with a grateful smile. "I think it'll benefit me as much as the girls. So is there any other information you need me to gather for you, or do I just need to hold down the fort?"

"Whatever needs to be done from this point, I will have to do," Roarke said. "The items I need cannot be obtained from conventional sources, because of the change in history. So you can remain in the office and handle whatever comes up, and if you like, you can check in with Christian and exchange messages with him. It will give me peace of mind to know that you and the triplets are safely in the present day while I go back and deal with the problem." He sighed. "And I don't look forward to it, I must admit."

"Well, just be careful, Father, that's all," Leslie said softly, and he smiled.

"That's one of the very first orders of business with me," he assured her, making her smile back with some relief. "I'll make the final preparations while you put Susanna down, and then come back down and make yourself comfortable."

‡ ‡ ‡

Brennan wished the administration of a cure didn't take so long to show results; he was afraid he was here too late to save Amarette Blaine from whatever "arrangements" she had made for Gareth Moran's life, and he had prepared himself to spend at least several days in the past while giving Moran doses of the cure. But when he peeked in at Moran in the morning, he was stunned to see the latter man sitting up in bed, reading the day's paper, enjoying a cup of tea. He had more color in his face and seemed to have more energy.

Moran looked up when Brennan stuck his head in. "Good morning, doctor! It's good to see you, how did you sleep in our humble accommodations?"

Blinking in disbelief, Brennan slipped into the room and closed the door. "As a matter of fact, it's good to see you looking so hale, Mr. Moran. How exactly do you feel?"

"I haven't coughed once since awakening," Moran said, beaming, "and my breath comes much easier. You must have some sort of miracle cure, my good doctor. Amarette and I could certainly find good work for you in our future project out west."

Brennan stared at him, still trying to figure out this new twist. This fantasy was taking him in directions he'd never even dreamed of going and didn't trust. "Ah, well…I'm just very glad to see that you're looking so much better. If you'll oblige me, sir, I'll just check your pulse and breathing…"

He walked out of the room several minutes later shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered aloud.

"What is unbelievable, doctor?" he heard Amarette Blaine ask, and jerked his head around to see her topping the steps.

"You might like to check on Mr. Moran," he said weakly.

She smiled broadly. "I already have," she said, her eyes wide with wonder. "I am the one who brought him the tea and newspaper. The transformation in him is simply amazing, doctor! You seem to be some manner of miracle worker. We can always use miracles such as yours in our new clinic out west—"

Brennan shrugged. "Mr. Moran said as much," he said, wondering what he should say. Where in hell was Roarke? "I might consider it, although…I, uh, I'd like a little extra time to be sure the cure is truly working as it should be. Mr. Moran should receive another dose in approximately an hour."

Amarette nodded. "Of course, doctor, anything. But to my eye it's plain enough that your wonder cure is beating back Gareth's consumption in simply no time whatsoever. Why, within a week he'll be well enough for us to begin our trip to the New Mexico Territory. With your healing powers, you'd be a valuable addition to our excursion; you could singlehandedly wipe out consumption among the poorer peoples and the Indians."

Brennan managed a smile. "Let me consider that, Miss Blaine, please," he said. "I just need a moment or two to myself, if you please."

"Of course, doctor. If you're hungry, there is plenty of porridge in the kitchen, and I've just brewed a fresh pot of tea. Help yourself, please." She beamed at him, then pushed into Moran's room. Brennan headed for his own, his stomach churning too much to consider breakfast, or even a cup of tea.

He closed the door and then dropped his medical bag, for standing beside the bed was Roarke, at last. "Well, it's about time," Brennan said with an exasperated sigh. "I have a ton of questions for you, Mr. Roarke. For one, how could Gareth Moran have been cured of his TB so fast? And for another, why did you let me go through with the cure at all—and so easily? Also, I—"

"One moment, Dr. Reese, please," Roarke said, raising one hand. "Before you go on, I must ask you to sit down, if you would. What I have to say is likely to meet with further skepticism from you, but I would remind you that this is all very real and very serious. I allowed you to come back in time, and administer a fast-acting cure to Mr. Moran, because I have discovered that history was wrongly changed."

Brennan gaped at him for a moment; then his knees let go and he half fell onto the bed, feeling slightly dizzy. "History can't be changed," he said inanely.

"So it is said," Roarke agreed, nodding. "Unfortunately, there are a certain few entities who do in fact have the power to effect such changes, and one has done so in the case of your ancestress. Dr. Reese, Amarette Blaine and Gareth Moran should not have perished, as Miss Blaine's diary seems to reveal. Instead, they should have married here in Pittsburgh, then relocated west and built a groundbreaking clinic."

Brennan opened his mouth, tried to think of something to say, but managed nothing except an inane "Huh?"

Roarke smiled. "Miss Amarette Blaine was a boon to history, Dr. Reese. She was the first doctor in American history to discover and isolate the healing elements in amakarna, and to apply them—in minute amounts that would help rather than harm—to curative and palliative medicines. Before history was changed, she and Gareth Moran moved to what was then the New Mexico Territory and ran a clinic that helped the native tribes already living there, the Hopi and Navajo. As history stands now, there are far fewer living descendants of these tribes than there should have been."

"Okay," Brennan said slowly. "I've heard of amakarna, after recent events involving your daughter and Prince Christian. In fact, I knew about it before, to some extent at least, since I remember treating a couple overdose cases for black lightning. But I didn't know the stuff had healing properties…I thought it could only destroy."

"Used properly, and by one who is fully versed in the spice's abilities, amakarna can indeed be of great benefit," Roarke said. "Which makes Miss Blaine all the more remarkable, for she did pioneering work in researching the spice and its properties. Had it not been for her, today's American doctors would have far less knowledge of amakarna's good properties, only its bad ones. In history as it should have occurred, Miss Blaine traveled to Italy shortly after learning of amakarna's healing abilities, and for approximately one year she and Gareth Moran worked with a Count Lorenzo LiSciola, at the time the only amakarna grower in the world. When they returned here, they moved west, built their clinic, and applied the knowledge he gave them in helping many people who would otherwise have had no access to quality medical care."

Brennan whistled low and shook his head. "That's…just…" His voice trailed off and he sat there absorbing all this, while Roarke waited patiently. At last he swallowed and looked up. "If it can heal…is that the reason the cure you gave me worked so quickly?"

"Yes," Roarke said. "I worked with the knowledge I myself have of amakarna, and added the correct amount to the medication you were to give Mr. Moran."

"Well, then…if it can do that kind of thing, then who on earth would want to change things so that Amarette and Gareth never found out about the benefits of the stuff? What kind of person would want to make things worse instead of better?"

Before Roarke could answer there was a shout from across the hall, then a cry of protest. "Gareth, you mustn't get up!"

"Why would you do a thing like that, Amarette, why, when you have so much to give the world? Why didn't you wait?" Moran's voice shouted.

Brennan jumped up and threw his door open, staring at them. "What's wrong?" he wanted to know.

"Tell the good doctor what you did, Amarette," Moran raged at his weeping fiancée, "for lack of belief in him and his healing abilities. Tell him!"

Amarette looked up, trembling hands hovering inches away from her cheeks, and said helplessly, "Gareth, my love, I did it for you! Without you I could have done nothing!"

"Tell him, Amarette!" Moran roared, going quite red in the face.

Amarette finally broke down altogether. "I sold my soul to the devil to save Gareth's life," she wailed. "I knew it was my last hope to keep him from dying, to keep alive the dream of bringing hope to the people who most need it…"

Moran growled deep in his throat. "You told me you sent for Dr. Reese weeks ago. You simply couldn't wait, could you! You had to go to the most evil entity in all Christendom and bargain away your immortal soul! I can't believe what a fool you are!"

Roarke stepped around Brennan then and urged, "Please, Mr. Moran, calm yourself. I can help you, if you will let me."

Moran drew himself up straight. "And pray tell, sir, who might you be?"

"My name is Roarke," Roarke said quietly. "I am…acquainted with the entity you speak of." He caught Moran's narrow glare and Amarette's shocked look and quantified in a dry tone, "Not pleasantly so, believe me. But Mephistopheles and I do know one another, and in the past we have battled against each other. A great deal has happened here, things that should never have taken place. But I believe I can put everything to rights—as long as you trust me." He turned enough to include Brennan in his gaze. "All of you."

‡ ‡ ‡

On the tea table sat a tall crystal vase filled with a dozen red roses; a small box of chocolates; and a pink envelope containing a card, which had been mailed from Lilla Jordsö. Leslie had an ear out for a cry from any of the triplets while she was e-mailing Christian, for whom it was approaching midnight of Saturday; she was reading the latest message from him now. _"I'm glad you received the roses and the card in time—and thank you for the beautiful note and engraved pen set that arrived for me here this morning, my darling! No, Magga still hasn't told the family. I doubt she'll find the courage for it anytime soon, in fact. I'd like to help, but since she's sworn me to secrecy, she's left herself no choice but to deal with it alone. I think the family would probably be able to handle it well enough, once they were over the initial surprise of learning her secret; but I can't convince her of that, she has to decide it for herself. Anyhow, enough of that. I'm happy to know that Mr. Roarke was able to concoct something to help Susanna and Karina with their teething problems. Perhaps by the time his elixir runs out, the worst of it will be past. What do you mean, what magic do I have that soothes Susanna when you can't? I wasn't aware I could do that. Who knows, perhaps it's because I sing to her in_ jordiska_. Maybe you should try that! Happy anniversary, at any rate. With all my love, Christian."_

"Oh, Christian Enstad," Leslie murmured with wry affection. Shaking her head, she pulled up a reply message: _"Christian, you rat, you know I can't sing in_ jordiska_—you forgot to teach me that lullaby I caught you singing to Tobias once! (grin) Maybe I"_ She stopped there when she heard a baby upstairs, and hurried up to see who it was. She found Karina awake and fussing, chewing on one hand, and made quick work of applying Roarke's potion to the baby's gums. Karina immediately brightened and stretched out her arms to be picked up, and Leslie laughed softly and lifted her out of the bassinet. She glanced at Tobias and Susanna, both of whom still slept, and reflected that pretty soon the triplets would outgrow these bassinets. Wondering what they were going to do after that, she carried Karina downstairs and sat back in front of the computer, only to have the baby promptly reach out and bat the keyboard, leaving a clump of nonsense letters in the middle of Leslie's message. She laughed.

"Silly girl!" she cooed to the giggling infant. "Are you writing to Daddy too?" With a grin she scanned what she had written so far and gently set Karina on the floor beside her to resume typing, keeping a sharp eye on the baby. _"…Maybe I dbfsbd … Sorry, my love, that's Karina's greeting to you! I just went up to get her and have her here with me now. Father must have put some sort of mood-lifter into that potion; she's sitting on the floor by my chair, cackling as if Bob Hope were telling her jokes. Well, it sure beats having cranky babies with teething pains. As I was going to say, maybe I should get you to sing that lullaby into a tape recorder and send me the tape, so I can play it back for the babies when they need soothing. I think it would be a great way for them to hear your voice while you're gone, too. You're right about Margareta, though I must say I feel for her. In a way it's too bad she won't let you tell anyone else, but then again, it's probably as well. If she's ever going to come out, she should do it herself. Uh-oh, someone's diaper needs changing. I'll send this and wait for your reply while I'm handling that little chore. I love you, and happy anniversary! Kisses, Leslie."_ She sent the message and hoisted up Karina, toting her back upstairs for the diaper change.

She had just returned and was playing a peekaboo game with Karina when Roarke came out of the time-travel room. Roarke laughed when he noticed that Leslie had pulled one of the leather chairs over beside the computer and had ensconced Karina in it so she could amuse the baby while she was e-mailing Christian. "One of the best seats in the house for my granddaughter, I see!"

Leslie grinned back and said, "Well, it's the only way I could play peekaboo with her, after all, unless I got on the floor with her. And I'm a little old for that." He chuckled, going back behind the desk, and she sobered. "How did the trip back go?"

"I have managed to convince all parties involved of my veracity," Roarke said, "though I note that Dr. Reese was considerably more skeptical than Miss Blaine or Mr. Moran. I have a good bit of preparation that needs to be done before I can face Mephistopheles on their behalf later today. If you'd like to make some rounds for me, my child, I can complete that; then you may remain here through the afternoon, and you might prefer to have lunch here in the study. It should be a quiet day."

"That's be fine," Leslie agreed. "I guess I'll take Karina along with me. Susanna and Tobias are still asleep, but I have a feeling they'll be awake before I get back, so if Mariki and the staff want to feed them, they can mash up some fruit and veggies for them."

"I'll pass the message on," Roarke promised with an indulgent smile. "Don't take too long, you yourself shouldn't skip lunch either."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- January 16, 2005

After lunch, Mariki's staff helped Leslie bring the triplets back into the study with her, and then left her alone with her children while she settled down behind Roarke's desk to pay some of the bills that came with the business he ran. The triplets hadn't figured out how to crawl yet, though they were beginning to hitch themselves along the floor on their stomachs. In fact, when Leslie looked up from writing out a check, she could see Tobias determinedly doing just that, apparently aiming for the computer chair.

She grinned and said, "Tobias…Tobias, look at Mommy." Her son paused and stared at her, and she laughed at his comically questioning expression. "Where're you going, young man, huh? Whatcha doing down there?" She gently teased him, wrinkling her nose and making a few faces, and Tobias chortled back. Leslie grinned, feeling very fortunate to be the mother of three such happy, healthy babies.

Then there was a knock on the door that got the babies' attention, and Leslie looked around in surprise. "Who's that?" she called.

"Some bored company," she heard a voice reply.

Laughing, Leslie said, "Come on in!" The door opened and Tabitha came in with her two children, Cristina, seven, and Ramón, who would soon be four. They were followed by Camille with her sons, 14-year-old David and seven-year-old Craig, and daughter Robin, twenty months old; and finally, Katsumi with Haruko, 14, and Chikako, about to celebrate her seventh birthday. "Wow," Leslie said, "it's a raid."

Her friends laughed, and they settled down around the tea table while their children dropped to the floor to play with the triplets. Only David seemed the exception, wandering to the computer and peering at it. "Did Mr. Roarke abandon you?" Tabitha asked. "Ramón, be careful of the babies."

"Well," Leslie said, making a face, "you could say he has a date with the devil." Her friends looked up in surprise, and she shrugged. "I'm not involved in this one, I just did some research for him. He'd rather I stay out of it, what with my having the triplets and Christian being out of the country. It suits me, to tell you the truth."

"Huh, this should make an interesting story when you have a chance to talk about it," Camille remarked. "Robin, play nice with Susanna now. Don't tell me, Michiko's royal other half finally dragooned Christian into setting up another franchise in Santi Arcuros."

"Yep," Leslie said with a sigh, "and he kept trying to impress upon me the fact that Errico can't be turned down."

"Why not?" Tabitha asked.

"You cannot say no to king," Katsumi said with a small, wry smile. "It is so with Japanese emperor as well. Christian say that to you, Leslie?"

She nodded ruefully. "Maybe you have to be born royal to get the idea, I don't know. In any case, Errico outranks Christian, so he felt as if he had to do it. But he didn't just let Errico walk all over him, either. He got about a dozen concessions out of him, and Errico said yes to every one of them, without a peep. Supposedly we're getting ten cases of Vallomoros wine in the near future, but so far I haven't seen a single bottle."

"Well, let us know when you do," Camille said with anticipation. "That's the best wine in the world, bar none. Expensive as all freaking heck, but worth it. David, what're you doing over there? Don't play with Mr. Roarke's computer."

David eyed his mother over his shoulder. "Aw, c'mon, Mom, it's boring here. Couldn't I just play some computer games or something?"

"Why don't you ask Miss Leslie?" Camille suggested pointedly.

David gave Leslie a hopeful look, and she chuckled and shrugged. "I guess that's all right. I've been e-mailing Christian, but he should be asleep by now; so I don't expect to hear from him until at least tonight sometime, probably late."

"Thanks, Miss Leslie," David said, pausing a moment before turning back to the computer. "Um…say…I've been studying for my driver's test. My parents won't even talk about it—they act like I'm about to go out and catch some disease on purpose or something. But I wanted to know if the driver's test is hard. Mom said you took it the same day you turned fifteen, is that right?"

Leslie nodded. "It's not too hard actually. You'll have a written test first, and then the sheriff's secretary will probably give you the actual driving test. It's changed some since I took it, though, so don't count too much on my experience." She peered at him. "Just out of curiosity, though, what're you gonna drive once you get your license?"

David shot Camille a glance and said, with more hope than conviction, "I'm planning to get a job this summer, maybe in town or on Coral Island, and earn money to buy a car."

"On this island?" Leslie asked, astonished. "I don't know about that."

David shrugged, shooting his mother another glance. This time Leslie followed the furtive look and saw Camille sitting there with her mouth open in shock. "Well, I gotta keep in practice, and I thought I could drive my friends to school next year."

Leslie had to laugh at that. "A noble undertaking, I'll give it that. But I have a better suggestion, actually. I know you're dying to get your license and start wearing it out from day one…" She grinned when David reddened. "But this is my thought. We've been short a driver for quite a while, and it's been hard finding another one—not too many licensed drivers on this island, after all. But with you being all gung-ho, maybe you can come to Father when summer vacation starts, and tell him I told you about this. Once you get your license, we could hire you on for the summer, and you could run errands for us. When you have some driving experience under your belt, later on, you might be able to shuttle guests between here and the bungalows. We can't pay you much just for piloting a car around, but you'll be able to do all the driving you like, and you might consider saving that money for something else. It's not too practical to have a car here, unless you live in the Enclave, and last I heard your parents had no plans to move there."

David actually looked interested. "Yeah," he said after a moment, "I guess you're right about that. Do you really think Mr. Roarke would give me a chance?"

"Of course, you'd have to show him you're a careful driver," Leslie said, "but otherwise I don't see any obstacle. My advice is to discuss it with your parents first of all, and make sure they're okay with it. If you don't have their clearance—and Father _will_ ask you for it, too—then it's no go, so you'd best talk with them."

David nodded, his face lighting. "Okay…I guess that's fair. That's great, Miss Leslie, thanks tons. Mom—?"

"It can wait," Camille interrupted him. "When your dad gets home from work this evening, we'll talk about it then. Just go ahead and play your computer games right now while we talk, okay?" Her son nodded and turned his attention to the computer, and Leslie gave Camille an apologetic look.

"I guess I sort of ran ahead of you there," she said.

Camille shrugged. "Don't get all worked up over it, Leslie. To tell you the truth, it's a better solution than anything either Jimmy or I could come up with. So anyway, how long is Christian supposed to be over in Europe? I hope the triplets don't forget who he is."

"I'm hoping the same thing," Leslie admitted, glancing at her three babies. Susanna was being entertained by Cristina and Karina by Chikako, and Haruko was playing peekaboo and "This Little Piggy" with Tobias in her lap. "In my last e-mail I told him he should record himself singing that _jordisk_ lullaby I've heard him use a few times and send me the tape, so I can play it for the babies."

"Oh, that would be a great idea," Tabitha remarked. "That way they wouldn't forget his voice at least, before he comes back, even if they don't remember his face. Are we interrupting you at something?"

Leslie laughed. "No, I was just paying some of the business bills that came due this week. Give me a couple of minutes to write out the last check or two here, and I'll be able to properly hold up my end of the conversation. Haruko, have you been thinking about getting your driver's license?"

Haruko Miyamoto looked up and wrinkled her nose. At fourteen she was a pretty girl, with gleaming jet-black hair and a sweet, delicate face with an elfin chin. After eight years on the island, she spoke English without an accent, though Leslie knew Kazuo and Katsumi spoke only Japanese at home so their daughters would be fluent in their parents' tongue as well. "I don't care about getting my driver's license," Haruko said, shrugging. "It's like you said—it's not very practical to have one on this island, except maybe for you and Mr. Roarke and Prince Christian and some other people. But I had a good idea for the summer and even the weekends during the school year. Mama and Papa say I'm old enough to start trying to earn a little money of my own now and I shouldn't be getting an allowance anymore. If you and Prince Christian ever need a babysitter, Miss Leslie, I'd love to do it. The triplets are so sweet!"

Leslie grinned, glancing up at her for a moment while writing out one final check. "They can be a handful, especially now when they're teething, but Father made up something to help us out in that department at least. And you know, it's not a bad idea. Mariki and her staff usually watch the triplets when they're here, but they can't always be around, what with their kitchen duties—they cover the bungalows too, as well as this house. I'd feel better if someone could stay with them on a constant basis. Let me e-mail Christian and make the suggestion, and if he agrees, you can start next weekend."

Haruko lit up. "Oh, that's wonderful, thank you, Miss Leslie!"

Katsumi laughed softly. "She like babies very much…always she talk about asking you to watch triplets. She sit with Chikako a lot, so she have…uhh, experience." The last word came out with a little difficulty, but was understandable. Katsumi's English was likely to remain permanently at this level of proficiency, but she could understand, and be understood by, her friends; and she was able to laugh at her own mistakes.

Haruko wrinkled her nose again. "I know you mean well, Mama-san, but sitting for Chikako isn't so much fun…and it doesn't pay very much." Everyone laughed.

"I'll see what I can work out with Christian," Leslie promised, tearing the checks out of the checkbook and sealing them into their envelopes to go out. "Errico's been building up the hype for this new location to the point where it sounds like pie in the sky. The London location has been struggling a little, so Christian's been saying that if the new one doesn't live up to all Errico's promises, he's going to close down those two and just concentrate on his offices here and in Sundborg."

"Fed up, huh?" Tabitha said, grinning. "I wonder what Errico wants, that he's been pushing poor Christian so hard. You'd think he was campaigning to host the Olympics."

"Maybe that's next, and he's getting into practice," Camille suggested, making them laugh again. From there the conversation went on to various other topics, and at one point Mariki came out with lemonade and sangria for them all. When the triplets began to yawn and whine and rub their eyes, Leslie recruited Haruko to help her get them down for their afternoon naps, after which the older children lost interest in hanging around the house and ran out to the lawn at the side of the house to play tag. Haruko went out to watch; Robin fell asleep on Camille's shoulder, and David finally gave up on computer games and went out as well to join in the game.

It was after four when Roarke finally returned to see Leslie's friends preparing to leave and Leslie just getting up to answer the ringing phone. He greeted the women and asked them how they were; when Leslie hung up, he smiled. "It appears the afternoon has been pleasant."

"Fortunately yes," Leslie said. "That was only the third call I've had all this time, and everything's going very smoothly. You should be able to concentrate on your mission without any distractions."

"Whatever's up, Mr. Roarke, good luck," Camille offered.

Roarke chuckled. "I appreciate the good wishes, Camille," he said, "and I'm also glad that you took time to come and keep Leslie company. With Christian away, she sometimes tends to fret, so it's good for her to have her friends."

"Maybe we'll make a habit of the Sunday-afternoon visit," Tabitha said lightly, and amid the chuckles they all traded farewells and departed.

Once they were gone, Roarke turned to Leslie. "It should be a quiet evening," he said, "but I'll be reassured knowing you're here, as before. I don't know how long I will be gone, but try not to worry. I know you're aware of the usual procedure with Mephistopheles."

Leslie smiled wryly. "Yeah, he seems to have this thing about using midnight as his deadline. Is that going to be the case this time too?"

"This time," Roarke said, "I suspect a deadline will be irrelevant. With the information I have gathered, time will make no difference—at least on the small scale. It will be the long run, history itself, that hangs in the balance."


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- January 16, 2005

It was gratifying to Roarke to see Gareth Moran in the best of health, with lively color in his face and an energetic grace in all his movements, as though he couldn't wait to begin using that energy for all the good causes he and Amarette Blaine were ready to tackle. Amarette, for her part, seemed a little wan, but when Roarke smiled and nodded to her, a glimmer of hope crept back into her eyes. Brennan Reese was tense but calm.

"Where are we supposed to meet the…uh…" the doctor began.

"The Prince of Darkness?" Roarke provided quietly. "He shall be along, Dr. Reese. He knows he will find the four of us here and has been waiting for the moment to arrive. Rest assured, he will appear."

Time slipped by; no one said much. Amarette lit oil lamps and a few candles in the parlor, and served tea that no one drank; the sun set and twilight fell, and Roarke suggested that Amarette draw the heavy velvet drapes over the windows. She looked spooked, but she arose and did as asked without protest. Roarke thanked her; she took her seat, and the wait continued. Sometimes they heard the sound of horses' hoofs clopping along the cobblestone street outside, occasionally they heard voices, but in the parlor was only silence.

In Roarke's experience, Mephistopheles always announced his appearance, and this time was no exception. At first only Roarke noticed the red glow, subtle to start with, that slowly lit the parlor. Then Moran asked uncertainly, "Is there a fire somewhere?"

A familiar chuckle sounded, and a dark silhouette stepped into the red glow that now filled the entrance to the parlor. "You might very well say that, Mr. Moran." The silhouette glided forward, and the light from the oil lamps and the candles, not very bright, brought the sharp, spare features of Mephistopheles into relief, pitted with shadows. "I do hope I haven't kept you waiting. And well, well, Roarke, fancy meeting you here."

"The devil makes small talk?" Brennan asked blankly, staring at him.

Roarke effortlessly concealed his amusement; Gareth and Amarette stared at him in horror; and Mephistopheles peered at him, pretending to be affronted. "My dear young man, I am as capable as anyone else of exhibiting nice manners," he huffed. "I'd ask for a bit of that tea there, but I suspect it's long since grown too cold to be enjoyable any longer." He shrugged. "No matter, we have business to conduct."

"Indeed," said Roarke. "Perhaps you'd do me the small favor of stating exactly what the nature of your business is."

"Why, I've come for Amarette Blaine's immortal soul, of course. She owes me that. Surely she's told you, Roarke," Mephistopheles said.

"But you can't take my soul," Amarette said, her voice trembling. "Not now. The reason no longer exists."

Mephistopheles peered at her and seemed to see Moran for the first time. "Well, well. It seems you've been restored to health, my good man. How unexpected." His gaze slid to Roarke, and he amended in a darker tone, "Or maybe not…"

Brennan suddenly stood up and announced, "I'm the one who cured him, Satan. If you take anyone's soul, it'll be mine."

Mephistopheles eyed him in amusement and drawled, "Oh? Suppose I'm not interested in your soul, young man? The contract was between me and the lady here, and I intend to collect on it. She promised that she would meet me here, in this room, this evening, and I would escort her directly to my domain."

Roarke spoke up: "She promised to do that only in the event that you cured Gareth Moran of his illness. That, you did not do. Therefore, you cannot take her soul."

"Now wait just a minute here," Mephistopheles said, glaring at him. "Don't try to spring yet another of your damned relentless loopholes at me, Roarke. You and I both know full well the contract was completely valid. Miss Blaine herself will attest to that." He gave Amarette a look that made her shrink a bit in her seat. "Won't you, madame?"

Amarette closed her eyes and nodded. "Yes," she murmured.

"Well, then, it's settled, wouldn't you say? Come along, Miss Blaine."

"I repeat—you cannot take her soul," Roarke said. "As I explained to you, you did not hold up your end of the deal. You can't take payment for services not rendered."

"Was it my fault that young interloper stepped in and beat me to the punch?" demanded Mephistopheles. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Take my soul," Brennan said again.

"You fool," Gareth said incredulously. "You can't be serious about this. Don't you understand what you're doing?"

"Don't, Dr. Reese, I beg of you," Amarette cried. "After what you've done for Gareth, the world can't lose your services. You can help so many people."

Mephistopheles rolled his eyes. "You altruistic do-gooders really turn my stomach."

"Perhaps you'd like to return to Hades and take something for it," Roarke offered, with a perfectly straight face. The others gawked at him.

Mephistopheles shot him a sour look. "Hilarious, Roarke. You're not going to cheat me out of a soul. I suppose the young doctor has a point there. He did sneak in and do what I had meant to do, and I do have a valid contract that by rights should be fulfilled, so I expect the only solution here is the one he suggested. Right this way, Dr. Reese…"

"Surely you aren't leaving," Roarke said, as if mildly startled. "I, too, have come to conduct some business, Mephistopheles, and mine isn't yet finished."

"Oh, really," said Mephistopheles, pausing and looking over his shoulder at Roarke with an impatient, long-suffering look. "Anything to prolong the agony, eh, Roarke?"

Roarke shook his head and _tsk_'ed at him, with a sorrowful expression. "Surely you didn't think I'd let you get away so easily! Contract or no, you aren't entitled to any of the souls in this room."

"Is that so! And where do you get that outrageous claim?" Mephistopheles wanted to know, turning fully back around and regarding Roarke with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Honestly, in all my existence, I've never known anyone who tries my patience the way you do! Let me warn you, Roarke, if you don't come up with some valid reason that I supposedly can't take the soul I'm entitled to, I'll walk out of here with all four of you."

"But you can't do that, and you know it," Roarke said. "And the reason is not only valid, it's very simple. You tried to obtain Miss Blaine's soul under false pretenses."

Mephistopheles folded his arms over his chest and eyed him, leaning against the wall, almost smiling. "This gets better and better. Go ahead and tell me how, so I can have my nice laugh and then get the doctor back home."

Roarke removed the sheets of paper Leslie had printed for him from his inside jacket pocket and unfolded them. "This is a newspaper article that reports the disappearance of Miss Amarette Blaine; and this one is an obituary for Mr. Gareth Moran. Proof that you did not keep your end of the bargain." He paused long enough to register their reactions; then he extracted Amarette's diary and opened it to the pages containing the final two entries. "These are not the original entries in this diary. Something else was written on these pages and then—for lack of a better word—erased, in favor of the new entries that appear here."

"But how could you tell?" Brennan asked, staring at him. "I mean, for one thing, you can't erase ink. And second, you can see those pages never met up with an eraser, because when you erase something, it leaves the paper rougher than the part that was never erased."

"Indeed," Roarke said. "That's why I told you that I would send you back to cure Mr. Moran. Those original entries were not quite obliterated, and that's what alerted me that history was improperly changed."

Mephistopheles had begun to look trapped, but he tried to cover it with bluster. "Oh, come on, Roarke. Of all the excuses you've ever used to try to get yourself or someone else out of my clutches, that one has to be the most insane."

"Miss Blaine," Roarke said, "please advise what you wrote in this diary for the last two days, yesterday and today."

Amarette looked flustered. "Oh…well, I wrote something last evening about having made arrangements to save Gareth's life, and today I merely wrote a farewell."

Roarke nodded. "Would you please come here and tell me what you now see on these pages?" He smiled when Amarette arose and slowly approached him, stopping a foot or two short of him and leaning forward to peer at the pages in the flickering light.

"They're blank," she said, sounding shocked. "How can that be?"

"Because of the change in history," Roarke explained gently. "What took place here recently should not have done so. The evidence of true history was contained in the nearly vanished entries you made in this diary originally."

"And Satan…Lucifer…Mephistopheles changed it," Gareth said.

"I know of no one else with such power—or such lack of conscience as to use it in that way," Roarke told him.

Mephistopheles snorted. "You could at least have made up your mind which of my names you want to call me by," he muttered, then glared at Roarke. "Spoil my fun, as always, Roarke, why don't you?"

"You know full well you never could have gotten away with it," Roarke said. "The universe is a will unto itself, Mephistopheles. When someone attempts to alter things for the wrong reasons, there will always be evidence of the wrongdoing, and sooner or later those improper changes must be made right. There are forces out there greater than I—greater even than you—and those forces will not be thwarted or swayed from their intended course. Oh, you can try to walk away with Miss Blaine's soul, or Dr. Reese's soul, but I daresay you'll not be allowed any farther than the doorway in which you stand."

Mephistopheles closed his eyes and stood there for a moment, his entire body tensing, his hands clenching into fists and the horns emerging from his forehead while they all watched, Roarke expectantly, the others in horrified fascination. At last he looked up and growled at Roarke, "I really ought to know better than to tangle with you by now, but I can't seem to help myself. I think what keeps me going is the knowledge that one day you're going to run out of loopholes and escape clauses, and I'll have you at last."

"Go home, Mephistopheles," was all Roarke said, with a slight smile. "But before you do, I must insist that you extinguish that little flame at your feet. You really do need to learn to control that temper."

Everyone looked down, and sure enough, there was a small fire crackling away on the carpet right in front of Mephistopheles' toes. The devil growled again, flicked his fingers at the fire and waited till it vanished, then warned, "You'll see me again, Roarke," before walking away. The red glow faded, and slowly the tension drained from the air.

"Changing history," Amarette finally said faintly, looking dazed. "I never dreamed anyone would even attempt it, or could—not even Mephistopheles."

"One never knows, Miss Blaine," Roarke said.

Gareth stood up slowly and extended a hand toward him. "How can we possibly thank you for what you've done? A feat like that defies repayment."

Roarke smiled. "And I ask for none, except that you and Miss Blaine follow through on your intentions of moving west and opening a medical clinic for poor and disadvantaged people. Knowing that history is being carried out as it properly should be is all the repayment I want. You are two extraordinary people, and I wish you both all the very best."

"Dr. Reese? Would you still come with us?" Gareth asked.

"Well…it's a generous offer, and tempting," Brennan managed, "but there are people here, in the east, who need my help. Who knows, maybe one day we'll find a way to eradicate tuber—uh, consumption on both sides of the country."

Gareth and Amarette thanked him and Roarke several times over, and as Brennan followed Roarke toward the front door, he glanced back and smiled wistfully. They waved at him, and he waved back one last time, wondering what he would find on the other side of Roarke's time tunnel.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- January 17, 2005

Brennan Reese stopped in front of Roarke and Leslie on Monday morning with a wondering look about him. "I'm still not sure this weekend wasn't a dream," he remarked.

"Perhaps in some ways, it was a dream," Roarke said. "It might be said that the reality you knew when you arrived was the dream, and now, as of this morning, you have awakened to the truth."

"Yeah, I guess that's the way to look at it," Brennan said, nodding thoughtfully. "So, then, just what did happen to Amarette and Gareth?"

Roarke grinned and handed him the diary. "Why don't you read this on your way home and find out for yourself, Dr. Reese. And before I forget…Leslie?"

"Oh yeah." Leslie pulled a slip of paper out of a pocket. "This is a short list of web-sites you might find interesting. One is for the clinic originally started by Amarette Blaine and Gareth Moran, and another is a family site for their descendants."

"No kidding," Brennan said, astonished, taking the paper and peering at the site addresses. "Amazing. I tell ya, this really has been a weekend to remember. Thanks for making everything right, Mr. Roarke." Roarke smiled at that, and they all shook hands before Brennan turned and moved slowly toward the plane dock, already reading the diary as he walked.

After bidding farewell to the weekend's other fantasizer, they lingered long enough to watch the plane taxi out of the lagoon, and Roarke noticed a slightly pensive expression on his daughter's face. "Is something wrong, Leslie?"

"I'm just trying to figure something out," she said. "Is Dr. Reese going to always know that history was different before he came here? And what about us? Are we going to have the memories of history as Mephistopheles tried to make it, alongside the memories of it as it was supposed to be?"

Roarke smiled. "There are any number of theories about that," he said, "but I believe my favorite is the one that suggests that those who were aware of both versions of history will recall the temporarily changed version for some time, though the memories will gradu-ally fade as the true history reasserts itself—not just in the universal memory, but in the individual one as well. Dr. Reese may always remember that he came here to have a wrong put right, but in time he is likely to forget precisely why."

"And I'll wind up with the same thing, I suppose," Leslie mused.

"I expect so, yes," Roarke said, "based on what very little you know."

She nodded, then stopped and gave him a sharp stare. "Hold it. Your _favorite_ theory? Don't tell me—you're not even remotely affected, are you? After all, if you were, you wouldn't even call it a theory, never mind your 'favorite' one. The memory change will happen to everybody but you, won't it? Don't deny it, I know it's true…" They headed for the car, and Roarke let her carry on, smiling inwardly. There were some secrets he would never reveal, even to Leslie.

* * *

_I'll be paralleling events in my ongoing FP project_ Bloom for Me, _so those of you who have been following that story will see some familiar events from that in the next tale—magnified, of course. Stay tuned…_


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